


Would You Like to Join Us?

by Face_of_Poe



Series: Not Subject to Congressional Approval [3]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Politics, Blow Jobs, Consent Issues, Dark!Washington, Dubious Consent, Dubiously Consensual Blow Jobs, Face Slapping, Face-Fucking, Hand Jobs, M/M, Manipulation, Office Sex, Power Dynamics, Power Imbalance, intern!Alexander
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-20
Updated: 2020-04-20
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:02:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23758807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Face_of_Poe/pseuds/Face_of_Poe
Summary: “You don’townme,” Alexander snaps. “You don’t even pay me.”Washington sits back at that and considers him. Gaze hot, raking across his disheveled form while he weighs his next words, and Alexander can hardly dare guess what they’ll be. That they’re done with this, whatever this messed up affair of theirs is; that he’s fired.Before he can apparently make up his mind, Jefferson laughs again.Delighted. “Like I said, George – better uses could be found for that mouth of his.”
Relationships: Alexander Hamilton/George Washington, Alexander Hamilton/Thomas Jefferson
Series: Not Subject to Congressional Approval [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1704559
Comments: 17
Kudos: 72





	Would You Like to Join Us?

**Author's Note:**

> Did not use archive warnings - see tags. All stories in series exist on dubcon-noncon spectrum to some degree, proceed or exit accordingly. 
> 
> And now, pornwards:

“Hamilton.”

The mug on his desk rattles as he starts and bangs his knee against the drawer. A hand reaches down to steady it, and he follows the wrist, up the arm of a perfectly-cut suit, until he meets the cool gaze of a nonplussed Aaron Burr.

Alexander blinks.

Burr cocks a slow brow. “What are you doing?”

“I’m…” he casts his eyes about his desk. _What_ was _he doing?_ “Nothing. I’m doing nothing.”

He wants to wipe the smirk off of Burr’s face. “I suppose Senator Washington’s office tolerates that sort of idleness.”

A beat passes. “I will… make sure my unpaid internship remains unpaid as fair compensation to the people for whom I am working fifteen free hours a week.” And before Burr can get in a witty retort, he tacks on, “What? What do you need?”

“Is the senator in? I have a draft of the subsidies bill from Senator Paterson.”

Most the office is already gone for lunch. Alexander glances over towards Washington’s private office; the door is open a crack and the light’s on. “I’ll take it.” He holds out his hand for the thick manila envelope. “Think he’s on a call.”

_Maybe_? Something about the Potomac clean-up initiative?

Burr hands it over, studying Alexander’s face all the while through narrowed eyes, his discerning air putting Alexander on edge. “You look exhausted.”

Eighteen credits, fifteen hours on the Hill, twenty hours a week doing the job that actually _pays_ him in the library, and never mind the weekend affair with his boss eating into his study time, damn straight he’s exhausted.

Trying very keenly not to think too vividly on his activities the night prior, he squirms in his chair and bites, “It’s Monday, for Christ’s sake, Burr, cut me some fucking slack.”

“Mister Hamilton.”

He lets out a heavy breath as Washington’s deep voice rings out from his office; Burr just quirks a condescending smile and turns for the door. “If you’ll make sure that reaches the senator’s hands; we’re expecting his notes tonight for a final draft.”

_We_. Alexander scoffs. As if Burr were anything more than Paterson’s errand boy.

It’s with that wholly unhelpful thought that he levers himself up out of his seat, snatches up the folder, and hurries to obey the summons. He taps once on the door before pulling it open wide enough to slip through into Washington’s private inner sanctum amid the typical chaos of the rest of the office, the Hill as a whole. “Sir?”

“Who are you so colorfully castigating out there, my boy?”

Heat rises in his cheeks. “Sorry, sir. Another intern.”

“One of ours?”

Eliza’s the only other one in on Monday afternoons, and he finds himself quite indignant on her behalf at the suggestion. “No.” Holding up the envelope, he steps closer to the desk, and fights to hold the senator’s eyes as they watch him with all the same burning intensity as any time they’ve met off-premises.

As any time Washington has demanded his eyes fixed up at his own while he kneels before him, staring down at him with pleasure written across his face, pleasure and something darker, something rooted deeper of which Alexander catches fleeting glimpses and can never fully pinpoint.

Washington coughs, and it’s all gentle bemusement in his smile now. “You’re distracted today.”

“I’ve barely been here an hour.” Two morning classes before his commute to the hill; five hours fetching coffee and sorting mail and delivering messages across the Hill, and then it’s back to campus on Monday and Wednesday evenings for three hour night classes that keep him busy until nine. “Just tired.”

Perfectly level tone, straight face, Washington tells him as he relieves Alexander of the bill draft, “You should get more sleep.”

_You should let me._ Eyes lingering on those big hands, clever fingers, Alexander shoves down the half-joking retort. Doesn’t need anyone to overhear, empty as the office seems. No matter how easily the line would be passed off as a joke about running him ragged at work instead of putting him through his paces during forbidden weekend encounters.

A good instinct, it turns out, when Eliza pops up in the doorway behind him. “Senator, are you working through lunch? Mister Tilghman is collecting orders.”

Washington considers her a moment. Nods at Alexander and dismisses him with a distracted, “Thank you, Mister Hamilton,” and he can hear him turn his attention to Eliza as he heads back to his desk. “Gil and Arnold are out?” A brief pause. “Would you retrieve Tench for me, Miss Schuyler?”

Alexander resumes his work that mostly consists of trying to look busy. He watches from the corner of his eye as Eliza heads back to the conference room where she’s sorting some filing. Sees Tilghman stick his head in, hears the rumble of low voices for a few quick moments, and then Tilghman is announcing to the smattering of people left in the suite, “Your Mondays just got infinitely better, everyone – take a break, be back here at two.”

“Arnold’ll be pissed,” Hanson points out drily from the desk across the way.

From the expression on Tilghman’s face, he truly could not care any less. “We just got the text of the bill, the senator wants some uninterrupted time to read through.”

Alexander bites his lip. Stands and starts slowly gathering up his things, wallet, keys, capitol ID badge. Glances up at the first movement from the doorway of Washington’s office, and sees the briefest flicker of glittering _want_ in the man’s eyes before he turns his attention to Hanson. “Arnold will manage without having anyone to boss around for a couple of hours.”

There’s a smattering of _thanks_ and _farewells_ , and as everyone starts moving for the door, Alexander speaks up quietly before Washington can disappear back into his office. “Senator? Would it bother you terribly if I spread out in the conference room to get some schoolwork done?” Washington’s brow furrows. “I can be quiet.”

“ _Can_ you?” Washington asks, and he fights back the mortified flush even as Tilghman and Eliza chuckle at his expense. “And… no, I think not, Mister Hamilton.”

_Oh_. “Oh. Okay.”

“You look dead on your feet; go get some lunch first. I’ll leave the office open until you return.”

Wrong-footed, and then again, he stammers around an acknowledgement, shoots an obligatory grin at Eliza when she threatens him about messing up her filing system, and joins her heading out into the corridor.

“I like Washington,” she confesses quietly, once they’re out of earshot of the office staffers. “He’s got this reputation as… I don’t know, this sort of taciturn hardass?”

Alexander says nothing; fears saying _anything_ , worries about what it might give away.

Nervous anticipation thrums through him as he pushes back into the office fifteen minutes later. A to-go cup of coffee from the cafeteria in one hand, a bag with a bagel and a packet of cream cheese tucked under his arm, he’s not altogether certain if he’s read too much into Washington’s brief gaze.

They don’t do this. Not here, not since the day Washington sat him in his own chair and made him touch himself, and put his mouth on him until Alexander shook apart, aroused and embarrassed and full of forbidden _want_ for this commanding, enigmatic man.

For broad hands that trace so gently, and yet feel so threatening, down the column of his throat.

For the mouth that is every bit as commanding as the words that come out of it when he claims Alexander’s own.

For the quick fingers, broad yet deft, that tease him and stroke him from the inside out, hard and unyielding and unbearably thick, two, three pressed inside him until he’s begging, until the brutal stretch of an even bigger cock makes him fleetingly want to beg for those fingers back even as they’ve moved on to digging bruises into his hips, his thighs.

For the soft words of encouragement and reassurance that hold his pleas at bay, renders them into wordless gasps instead, stumbling upon the fraught precipice between _too much_ and _more_ , between delicious pain and unbearable pleasure. 

Throat dry, breathing uneven, mind hazy with memory and uncertainty and deep, desperate desire so strong it frightens him, if he thinks too hard upon it, he closes and locks the suite door behind him and crosses quietly to Washington’s office.

It’s empty. Dark.

Before disappointment and relief can battle too strongly for claim over the sudden dissolving anticipation, Washington calls out to him again. “In here, my boy.”

He finds him in the conference room. Sitting on the low sofa under the closed blinds of the window that looks back out into the outer office, perusing the text of the bill. Reading glasses on his nose, one ankle crossed over the opposite knee, and he looks so very…

So very harmless.

“Have a seat,” Washington nods to the empty cushion beside him. “Some of this wording is unwieldy, I’d like your thoughts.”

Alexander thinks about his schoolwork, abandoned back at the desk.

Washington looks up and meets his eyes, piercing stare over the top of his glasses.

He steps into the room. Makes to sit down in the proffered seat but Washington’s hands stop him, a firm grip on his hips, and he holds him there in front of him, looking him up and down. “Hang up your jacket,” the senator directs.

There’s a row of hooks hanging just inside the door, so he backtracks. Shrugs off the suit jacket and drapes it over the one in the middle, and then returns to hover awkwardly for further instructions or approval.

Washington reaches up to loosen his tie and unbutton his collar. Rucks the hem of his shirt out from the waist of his pants and then guides him to sit with his back against the arm of the couch, legs resting across Washington’s lap, the senator as fully put-together as he ever looks on the floor in contrast to Alexander’s suddenly disheveled state.

The binder with the text of the bill lands in his lap. “Read,” Washington commands, and Alexander balks at the dozens and dozens of pages of obscure legislative minutiae as he flips the thing open. He starts at the cover page, with a quick, bemused glance at Washington. Gets halfway through the basic overview before Washington taps him sharply on the thigh and clarifies, “Aloud, if you please.”

_Sweet Jesus_. He clears his throat, and starts again from the top. “ _S. 4087_ – _Agricultural Subsidy Efficiency Act, 2018_.” He feels ridiculous. “Sponsors – Senator William Paterson, federalist, New Jersey; Senator George Washington, independent, Virginia. Introduced April 2, 2018. Committees - ”

He stutters to a halt as Washington’s broad hand moves up his thigh. Firm, possessive, rubbing him through the thick material of his slacks until his dick starts to show reluctant signs of interest, firming up under the proprietary touch.

“Continue,” Washington orders under one cocked brow, hand stilling until Alexander’s eyes dart back to the abandoned header of the bill. Cheeks aflame, he continues hoarsely.

“Committees – Agriculture, Nutrition, and Forestry; Finance.” The pressure lifts from his burgeoning erection, deft fingers slipping the button on his pants through the loop one-handed, pulling down the zipper, and then resuming the heavy strokes through the layers of his garments.

When he finishes the rest of the header and flips the page to the table of contents, Washington slides his fingers in between his pants and his briefs, and Alexander drops his head back against the arm of the couch with a reluctant groan, warm pressure of that huge hand pressing down on him, fingertips skimming over his balls, heel pressing firmly against the head. “Continue,” Washington orders again.

The words lose all meaning as he mindlessly recites. Washington might be listening and honest-to-God absorbing what he hears, and then he knows he _is_ when, with one hand still absently caressing up and down his painfully constricted erection, he leans over and jots a note to himself on a notepad resting on the other side of the couch.

Face hot, words running together as he babbles, as though reading _faster_ will somehow save him despite the impossibly long text that he’ll never actually get through in its entirety, Washington uses his tone, his frantic pace, to measure the strokes of his fingers, the pressure of his hand. Pulls back as Alexander descends closer to incoherence and, without fail, works him faster and harder every time he calms down enough to actually process some of what he’s reading.

There’s no sense of time through this torture. He may have read five pages, or ten, or twenty, and there’s sweat dampening the collar of his shirt, his throat is dry and hoarse, and he’s desperate to come and almost as desperate _not_ to and risk ruining his pants. Washington’s forearm is heavy where it rests across his hip, and occasionally he hears more scratching of the pen in his other hand.

At some point, Washington takes pity on him and leans down to fetch a bottle of water from the floor. Tips it carefully into Alexander’s open, panting mouth, glancing sternly between his face and the binder, warning him not to spill a drop and risk ruining the pages. After placing the bottle back on the floor, he reaches over again and brushes moisture from his cheeks, and it’s not until then that Alexander even registers crying in his desperation.

Then – _then_ Washington finally eases his hand inside his briefs, and Alexander thinks he could very well come before the senator has a chance to refocus on the cruelty of his game. He stutters on the turn of a page, chases the feeling and tries not to give himself away, when the clearing of a throat drives his impending orgasm away on a wave of complete and utter panic.

He jolts against the arm of the couch, pain lancing up his spine. Even with nowhere to go, Washington’s arm continues to pin him at the hip, and the best he can do in his alarm is slam the heavy binder down in an effort to conceal the liberties the senator is taking, and never mind that he’s sitting with his legs sprawled across the man’s lap.

Washington squeezes him once, _hard_ , giving him a disparaging look as he fails to stop the whimper. There’s a dark chuckle from the doorway, and he finally registers the identity of their intruder, and feels his stomach promptly plummet.

Senator Jefferson is shaking his head slowly back and forth, eyes drifting slowly up and down Alexander’s form. From his flushed and sweaty face to his trembling hands, to his lower half resting in Washington’s lap while the man has his hand down his pants, and a million and one horrible thoughts flit through his mind in an instant.

Scandals. Resignations. A media circus, hearings, spending the rest of his life dodging this one poor decision that will define him forever.

And then Jefferson laughs. A sound of incredulous, honest delight as he steps forward and plucks the binder off of Alexander’s lap, which only serves to heighten his embarrassed mortification. “I know you’re a depraved son-of-a-bitch, George,” he says, flipping back to the first page and scanning the header of the bill, “but _this_ is the best use you could fathom for the boy’s mouth?”

It is a strange dichotomy. Relief at the realization that Jefferson sounds unlikely to sound the alarm; creeping horror at the thought that...

…that what?

That for all of their secrecy, Washington can apparently violate the ethical standards of his position with impunity, at least from certain quarters?

That Jefferson’s line could be a joke, or an indication of past indiscretions?

That he’s now wondering about Jefferson’s intern, quiet little Madison, always hard at work and quite loyal to his fellow Virginian?

Or perhaps simply – as Washington fails to react, save to resume his teasing caresses, as the next words leave his mouth – that the senator cares not one bit about privacy, about modesty, and nor does he seem to care about the gleam sparking in Jefferson’s eyes the longer he stands and stares.

“Such as it is, I do need to go through this bill, and Alexander doesn’t yet have the patience and discipline to use his mouth without it proving a distraction to my efforts.”

Alexander is uncomfortably uncertain whether his flustered outrage is due mostly to the fact that Washington would discuss it at _all_ , or the fact that he’s being openly critical. The uncertainty at least serves to jolt him out of his stunned stupor, and he finally shoves Washington’s hand away and scrambles out of his lap, keenly aware of his disheveled state as he spins to face forward and hunches over, letting his shirt conceal his unfastened pants, the slowly-abating hardness.

“I don’t know what… _this_ is,” he says slowly. Desperately wanting to stand and put himself to rights but not especially caring to do so in front of Jefferson. “But I think I should –”

“Don’t sulk, Alexander,” Washington reproves, “It does not become you.” And as though he had not spoken at all, he turns to Jefferson and asks, “What did you need, Thomas?”

“Randolph’s waiting on a final word about Richmond.”

Washington makes a low sound of annoyance in his throat. “Saturday night?”

“Eight o’clock.”

“Hm.” A heavy hand descends to rest high on Alexander’s thigh; he watches Jefferson’s eyes track the movement. “Fine.”

_Saturday, Richmond_. A weekend reprieve, then, a weekend to catch up on work and school and _sleep_ , if he’s lucky.

Fingers squeeze tightly, as if Washington can read his thoughts.

Fingers squeeze tightly, and he’s suddenly claustrophobic here in this room with these two giants of men. Itching under his clothes, unfastened and loosened as they are, and it’s too much. The discomfort wins out over his vulnerability, and he pushes up off the sofa, fumbling with the button and zipper on his pants, not bothering with tucking his shirt back in yet in his hurry to escape this room, this office, possibly the Hill altogether.

That possessive hand grips his elbow and he whirls, shakes off Washington and snaps, “ _Sir_.”

A slow brow arches. Cool, skeptical, a shade derisive. “We are not done here, Alexander.”

“ _I_ am,” he retorts. “I’ll be back at two, with everyone else. This is…” His gaze flits between Washington, still coolly unimpressed and Jefferson, looking darkly amused. “This is…” _weird_ , his mind supplies; _fucked up_ , “…not what I signed up for.”

“And _I_ ,” the senator barks, “am not interested in spending my time with a petulant brat. Nevertheless, I did not give you permission to leave.”

Jefferson edges slowly towards the door, grinning over his shoulder. “I’ll just leave y’all to -”

“You don’t _own_ me,” Alexander snaps. “You don’t even pay me.”

Washington sits back at that and considers him. Gaze hot, raking across his disheveled form while he weighs his next words, and Alexander can hardly dare guess what they’ll be. That they’re done with this, whatever this messed up affair of theirs is; that he’s fired.

Before he can apparently make up his mind, Jefferson laughs again. _Delighted_. “Like I said, George – better uses could be found for that mouth of his.”

The corner of Washington’s mouth turns up in a lazy smirk; Alexander wants to wipe it clean off, but he wants even more to take back the next impulsively snapped words before they’ve even fully left his mouth.

“You don’t have to be circumspect, Senator Jefferson, if you see something you want.”

A wolfish smile creeps slowly onto Jefferson’s lips, and he knows in the seconds of heavy silence that follow that he’s going to call his bluff. He tries to keep his gaze carefully avoidant of Washington, even as he feels the man’s piercing stare drilling into the side of his face, but when Jefferson shoots an indecipherable look as his colleague, there and gone again, Alexander can’t help but follow his gaze. 

Washington is watching him, impassive. “Have a care, Alexander,” he murmurs after a moment, simultaneously reaching over to retrieve the discarded binder with the dozens of pages of the newly-drafted bill, “that your pride and instinctive contrariness not lead you to take on something for which you are not ready and that is more than you wish to handle.”

And then he thumbs through the pages in search of the place where Alexander left off in his reading, and being so pointedly ignored makes him flush in greater embarrassment and humiliation than any of the rest of it. It’s less a dismissal as a clear message that he can’t be bothered to afford the matter any further attention.

A strange shift, however affected it might be – he is used to a certain intensity of single-minded focus when he is alone with Washington. Is used to the shiver up his spine as the senator’s eyes linger just a moment too long when their paths cross in the office.

And yet the quiet understanding in the back of his mind – that the harder he tries to reestablish a sense of control, of boundaries, the more readily Washington maneuvers him precisely where he wants him – it does nothing to quell the frustration, that wounded _pride_ that makes him stalk towards the only escape from the room, from Washington’s unbearably loud silence.

The doorway in which Jefferson still lingers.

He moves like he’s going to slip around Jefferson; expects the hand that takes him above the elbow anyway, and lets himself be pulled back a step with a sigh. Raises his gaze to meet the amused challenge shining behind those dark eyes, tilting up the corners of his lips.

A hand reaches up to cup his jaw; fingers longer, thinner than Washington’s. Sharper in the way they dig into his flesh, but the thumb that traces across his bottom lip is smooth, gentle. Curious. “Is this adequately straightforward for you, Alexander?”

Instinct – instinct he hates, instinct that feels like weakness in this moment, betrayal to his own peevishness – makes him twist his neck around to look for Washington.

Cruel fingers tighten, will surely press bruises into his jaw, his neck. Jefferson reaches his other hand up behind Alexander’s head and takes his ponytail in a firm grip, and his head is dragged back, throat bared and vulnerable.

He’s panting. The sharp sting in his scalp competing with the pressure of the other hand that drifts down to wrap loosely around his throat. Pain, an edge of fear, revived arousal from the long minutes Washington spent working him over on the couch and…

…and he hears the rustle of pages in the background. Washington continuing his steady perusal of the bill. A different sort of heat suffuses his face, and Jefferson prompts him. “Well?”

He swallows once, thickly, throat bobbing against the press of Jefferson’s hand.

And holding the senator’s gaze steadily, unblinking, he sinks to his knees as fast as the hand fisted in his hair will allow.

It could be his imagination, but he can feel Washington’s stare boring into the back of his head, now that Alexander can’t see his act of affected indifference. He peers up at Jefferson’s indecipherable gaze, and swallows thickly, before reaching slowly for the button at the top of his pants and –

“Ah, ah.” Jefferson slaps his hands away, as though he were a child reaching towards a hot stove. (In some ways, he feels like he _is_ ). “I think I like this picture, I’m not quite done looking at it yet.”

Washington is quiet, so quiet and still, behind him.

Dark eyes dart over his face. Down the column of his throat, exposed and vulnerable in this position, kneeling with his face craned upwards. Down further, to where his untucked shirt is the only thing concealing how shamefully hard he is again.

Once his considering perusal is complete, Jefferson reaches behind Alexander’s head and tugs the elastic band out of his hair, and a few strands along with it. Long, dexterous fingers – that he can’t help but compare with and imagine in contrast to Washington’s – smooth his hair down, tuck it behind his ears.

“Hm,” Jefferson tilts his head one way, then the other. “Pretty.” It’s casual, offhanded, and heat flares in his face all over again. “Open.”

Alexander blinks at his face, and then down at his yet-fastened pants, confused.

“Your mouth,” Jefferson snaps, “open your mouth.”

Feeling ridiculous, and a bit like he’s getting a check-up instead of preparing to blow a United States senator in front of _another_ United States senator who just so happened to regularly have his cock up Alexander’s ass these past several weeks, he lets his jaw fall open.

A lazy smirk settles over Jefferson’s face, and then two fingers are pressing down on his tongue. He closes his mouth around them and starts to hollow his cheeks, but then Jefferson’s other hand is darting out, lands a sharp smack on the side of his face and he sits back on his heels with a gasp.

The fingers slip away; there’s a rustle of movement from the couch behind him, and he sees Jefferson’s gaze flit over his head to Washington for the briefest of moments before returning to his face with an oily sweet smile. Those same two fingers caress his hot cheek, and he murmurs, “Let’s try that again. Open up, Alexander.”

He hesitates, half-expecting another slap. But Jefferson just traces his bottom lip gently again until the rush of adrenaline fades and he dutifully opens his mouth.

Then the fingers are back. Heavy on his tongue, the sensation weird and verging on uncomfortable, and then decidedly uncomfortable when Jefferson pushes them further back towards his throat. Alexander gags and yanks his head backwards to cough, tears springing to his eyes.

Jefferson clucks his tongue and makes a motion that Alexander can only interpret as _again_. Far more reluctantly, he straightens back up and opens wide but he’s tensed, braced for it, anticipating the fingers in the back of his throat and he gags even sooner at the next intrusion and pulls away.

“Looks like George has a way to go with you.”

The mortification at having been found so unsatisfactory only heightens when Washington murmurs absently, “I’ve had other priorities.”

Jefferson’s gaze drifts back down his body. “I’m sure.”

“If you heard the pretty noises I’ve been wringing out of him, you wouldn’t be so quick to try to choke them off either.”

Embarrassment and indignation rise back up in equal measure but Jefferson’s too quick, has too sharp an eye on him. He fists a hand in his hair to prevent him from rising or turning, and drags his head back so his face is tilted up again.

Alexander feels a tear escape from his lashes; Jefferson’s eyes track its slow slide down the side of his face and under his ear and he repeats softer this time, “Very pretty indeed.” 

Then he looks up and around. Glances at the long conference table and bites his lip, considering, before reaching down and hooking a hand under Alexander’s armpit and hauling him to his feet. “We’ll see if we can’t make this easier on you. How about you hop up on the table there, Alexander.”

He slowly moves to oblige once the grip from his hair is gone. Plants his palms flat and hoists himself up on the edge of the table. Unable to hide the bulge in the front of his pants like this, unable to avoid stealing a quick glance at Washington, who spares him the occasional look in turn overtop his portfolio. Assessing.

Alexander looks uncertainly up at Jefferson for further instruction, more than a little distracted by the slim fingers deftly managing his button and zipper. Jefferson catches his eye and stills, even as he’s reaching to free himself from his pants, and there’s a moment of expectant silence that hovers awkwardly in the air between them until Jefferson barks an incredulous laugh.

“Christ’s sake, George, I didn’t think the doe-eyed, dumb slut routine was quite your style.” 

“Thomas,” Washington rebukes, taking an interest at last even as Alexander decides there’s only so far his pride will tolerate this abuse after all. “A dearth of experience is hardly call for slandering Alexander’s intelligence.”

He sets the portfolio aside and rises to his feet. Grabs Alexander’s jacket where it hangs by the door and approaches slowly.

And for one brief moment that’s spent caught hovering uncomfortably between relief and disappointment, Alexander thinks that Jefferson’s crossed some line that has Washington tapping out of this insanity.

And then firm hands are guiding him fully up onto the table and turning him. “On your back,” Washington explains, folding his jacket over a few times to create a makeshift cushion by the edge of the table. “Here.”

_Then_ he gets it. Can only follow the insistent direction of the hands at his hips, his shoulders, laying him out, arranging the folded jacket under his neck and shoulders and then Jefferson leaning over and pulling him by the waist until his neck is over the edge of the table, head hanging at an awkward angle.

“Breathe, my boy,” Washington says close by his ear. “The angle’s better.”

Except for all of the things Washington has done to him, for all of the times he’s put his mouth on Washington’s prick, no such creative gymnastics have ever come into it, and he realizes the difference even as Jefferson is pulling himself free finally and tapping once at Alexander’s cheek.

Jefferson doesn’t want a _blowjob_ , doesn’t want to see him put on a show and fight to take him deeper and get him off – he just wants to use his mouth and do the work himself.

And with that thought, he curls one hand under Alexander’s neck and pushes back into his throat until he feels himself start to choke around him, and then pulls back and adjusts; doesn’t press so deep the next time. Feels out Alexander’s limits and sets a pace, hitting him just deep enough for his throat to start to seize up, for tears to form in his eyes and eventually drip into his hair, without causing him to gag and spasm (or worse) around his cock.

He’s got his eyes pressed closed; can’t see anyway, the bunched-up front of Jefferson’s pants chafing against his face where he’s got them pushed down just far enough to free the cock sliding insistently in and out of his mouth.

When a hand presses against his own traitorous erection – and that can only be Washington – he’s glad he cannot see. That Washington cannot see his face, can barely hear him save the helpless little wet gasps as he sucks in every available scrap of air.

Jefferson wraps his other hand around Alexander’s throat – a light enough grasp, but one that reminds him just how truly powerless he is in this moment, how much at Jefferson’s mercy. A moment later, Washington opens his pants again and works him free, goes back to stroking him with the same maddeningly slow, light pace he’d adopted on the couch, and Alexander quickly loses any and all sense of passing time.

He hears his own pathetic gasps and whimpers. Jefferson’s light huffs of exertion. Tastes the occasional burst of bitter pre-come on the back of his tongue. Feels the slow coiling of heat in his spine, fighting to win out over the ache in his jaw, the intense discomfort of the hard table, the edge of it digging into his neck.

At some point, Jefferson starts to press deeper, deep enough that he’s crying in earnest and fighting down the gag reflex on every thrust. Sometimes failing.

At some point, Washington must have managed to unbutton his shirt, because he’s suddenly starkly aware of a warm hand trailing up his abdomen, a thumb brushing over his nipples, and he arches painfully on the table, caught between chasing and escaping the onslaught of stimulation.

At some point, Jefferson must tire or maybe their time is running out, because Washington starts working him over more insistently even as Jefferson lightens up, slows his pace. Alexander becomes more aware of his impending orgasm; also, of the tears and sweat and snot all over his face.

Washington scrapes blunt fingernails across his chest and pinches one of his nipples, _hard_ , and he comes with a weak sob, muffled by the length that pushes to the back of his tongue and then floods his mouth with a sudden rush of bitter fluid that has him gagging and sputtering.

He’s only vaguely aware of Jefferson pulling free from his mouth. Of being hauled upright and his head spinning as he choked and swallowed. Of a cloth wiping gently at the mess that must be his face, and then being lifted and carried back over to the sofa where this whole mess began, and clinging to whoever’s shoulders and not even caring if he was in Washington’s or Jefferson’s arms as he fought to come back to himself. 

Eventually, he does of course. Enough, anyway.

And of course, it’s Washington beneath him, because Washington pulls the strings, and whatever fantasy he’d harbored earlier about putting his foot down and walking away was just that.

He’s all soothing touches now, a warm, broad palm underneath his open shirt, rubbing slow circles against his back.

Alexander hiccups. Twists a little further into Washington’s sturdy form, and presses his face into his chest.

“You’re alright, my boy.”

It’s not even a question.


End file.
